


Nail and Compass

by DominoAffect



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-24
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-02 01:09:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21153089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DominoAffect/pseuds/DominoAffect
Summary: A soldier, bound to her post by personal honor and societal expectations, comes across a strange wanderer from parts unknown and finds herself questioning him, studying him, and then asking herself why she was becoming so worryingly obsessed over some dusty old bug.A map-maker, who has spent his entire life letting the will of gods and nature dictate his next path, has a chance encounter with a beautiful, distinguished young lady and wondering why he suddenly finds himself hesitating to jump to the call of the open road.This is their story.





	1. The Cartographer in the Inn

The first thing she had heard was the humming. 

Music as happy and joyous as the one she had heard pouring out of the open window of some old, musty Outer Ring inn was not a common occurrence in this part of Fenmire, where the cold was biting, the fog permeated every last nook and cranny of its brown, crumbling mud-brick facades, rain slowly seeped through grass-thatch roofs into the damp, dark interiors beneath them and fires struggled to provide some respite from the misery. In this ring, the poorest of the poor bugs huddled away from the likes of Iselda, who was a sergeant of the the Count of Fenmire’s peacekeeping corps and was very good at her task of keeping revolutionaries and other criminals in line, rarely having to draw her nail when on patrol which resulted in rather dull beats with nothing but the company of the wind, misting rain, and the sound of her feet squelching through the peat to keep her company. 

So suffice to say, the jolly tenor of some poor lost soul too oblivious to notice the unrelenting dampness around them was strange to her...strange enough to warrant the search of the inn if only for the sake of her piqued curiosity toward a bug that clearly did not understand where in the world they were. Even if it turned out to be nothing, just another traveling loon still clinging to the last bits of his sanity that came from being exposed to the lifeless, barren glen beyond this city, she will have at least satisfied that nagging curiosity that would distract her for the rest of her watch. 

On her second round she looks from side to side down the main boulevard of her patrol route before she ducks her tall, slender frame through the low doorway of the darkened inn, the soft glint of Lumafly light off of her polished armor and the clink of her nail’s scabbard by her side announcing her presence to the tattered barmaid and sending a soft hush across the bugs that had congregated in the inn’s tavern--which only resumed when it was abundantly clear that she was not interested in whatever conversations these insects were having among themselves. The sea of blank, expressionless faces meaning that she would have had a hard time picking out one of the individuals from a crowd anyhow, and as long as no one was doing anything illegal, she saw no reason to care. The only one of them that drew her eye, if only due to his much different appearance, that incessant humming, and the literal mound of papers that seemed to have piled up around his table and even trailed out into the walkway, was the bug that Iselda was looking for: the wanderer that had made an otherwise uneventful day just a little bit more interesting. 

From a glance, he appeared to be some sort of a weevil; not really an uncommon sight in the Fen but usually reserved for some of the smaller Middle Rings, where they often served as merchants and money changers and where Iselda herself had come from, as the only daughter in a family of merchants who had spurned the long, boring, monotonous life of shopkeeping and took up the nail to fight her way to the higher echelons of society. In contrast to her, this traveler certainly had the look of someone who spent a lot of time with his trunk to a page as he was now, eyes squinted behind fogged spectacles as he scribbled away at something with a fervor that didn’t seem to match his calm expression and happy singing. He was much shorter than any weevil she knew as well, and quite round...but it seemed as though his soft appearance might be at least a little bit deceiving if the large satchel full of rolled up parchment was of any indication. There was a mug of some sort of liquid, placed somewhere absentmindedly off to his right, but it was clear that this wanderer seemed more intent at filling out his drawing than he was at finishing his drink. She watches him for a few moments before she feels safe enough to lean over slightly, her expression betraying her intrigue as her antennae curl behind her head with curiosity. 

“You’ll have to forgive me if it’s incomplete. I’m afraid I’m not quite done with this draft as of yet.” 

She hadn’t been aware of how close she was to the wanderer, only registering that the words that had been spoken to her had come from him until she also noticed, a split second later, that his humming had also stopped, and his gaze had moved from his half-marked page to her own face almost a full body length above him. When she broke from her reverie and straightened herself back up, clearing her throat and replacing her claws on her sheathed nail, she could see with a small twinge of relief that the weevil did not appear to be upset or intimidated by her presence. That was a good change of pace...not every outsider to the Fen was friendly and it was a nice feeling to not have to worry about getting shanked if she got to close. That wouldn’t be an easy one to explain to the captain during her debriefing. 

“I...I’m sorry?” Iselda asks, having not fully realized what exactly this male was doing, and admittedly not quite registering what exactly he said. She glances briefly back down at the parchment the weevil had been scribbling on and notices that he seemed to be drawing a series of lines and curves that roughly corresponded to the major streets and byways of the Outer Ring. “Oh! A map, is it? You’re making a map?” 

The outsider nods excitedly, placing his quill and inkwell off to the side and practically vibrating with excitement as he smooths out the corners of his draft of a map, unashamedly admiring his work thus far as he places his claw directly on top of a small, square symbol that sat at the corner of one wide street and a much smaller, more winding, narrow one. 

“Yes, of course...see? This is where we’re at right now. This the main boulevard, which then continues to the east in a large loop around the entirety of the city, with small roads like this one forming a much more complex network of alleys and lanes that weave between the buildings, like spider silk.” He explains this to her as if she hadn’t the foggiest clue in the world how to find her way around the place, these streets which she patrolled on a daily basis...as if she didn’t have the Count’s crest embossed on her armor and everything else about her didn’t scream to all that saw her that she lived in the Fen herself. She would be offended if not for the fact that this weevil spoke with such pleasure, such outright elation over this page that was supposed to be a draft, that she didn’t correct him and let him know that she did indeed know her way around the city she guarded. 

“I’ve been working on it for...well, it feels like at least a better part of the afternoon.” The wanderer states after he cast a quick look at the level of light outside of the inn as if to gauge how much time had passed. However, telling time by light alone was a hard thing to do when the sky looked gray all the time. “I had never imagined a place like this to be so vast, for a city like this to be so well-planned out. It certainly stands out above the likes of Woodbine’s mostly-vertical termite tunnels, or the chaotic, above ground shelters built hastily over the mole cricket passages of Sod Prairie…” 

Iselda’s focus had begun to fade as this wanderer began to rattle off the names of places that seemed almost imaginary to her, places that she hadn’t heard of even in passing on the lips of other travelers, places that, if one had told her they existed when she was younger, she would have been inclined to shove them away and call them a liar. After all, those in Fenmire had been told that very few bugs survived with their sanity on the glen around them. It was why many of the travelers would stumble into the outside rings stark raving mad, instilling ideas in the desperate populace that would only lead to their ruin if the poor folk pushed this madness into the inner rings. Stopping these lunatics was indeed part of Iselda’s job, and as this bespectacled map-maker continued to ramble, the sergeant could see the eyes of a couple local bugs on her, wondering why she didn’t just arrest him here on the spot. 

“Oh, but what a relief it is to see something so deliberate. All the streets and alleys meeting in at least predictable patterns. Means I won’t have to worry much about getting lost here. Not that I worry about getting lost, mind you, I’ve got a good head for directions, but the outer ring alone is so vast, it will still be a couple more days before this draft is finished.” 

The wanderer’s voice stops suddenly, and Iselda perks up as well, only to see that the wanderer had picked up his mug to drink from it. A quick glance inside the cup shows the thin film that had formed on the surface of whatever dark brew the barmaid had given him, and the thought crosses her mind to warn him seconds before he sticks his trunk in it anyway, taking a few good gulps before he too stops and realizes the drink’s gone stale. A twinge of disappointment crosses his face, but he swallows what he had drunk and then gently sets his cup back to the side, with the wordless intention that he would probably never pick it up again. A few more awkward moments pass before this map-maker seems to remember that Iselda was standing right above him, and his eyes light up again. 

“Oh! My goodness, where are my manners? Terribly sorry, my good lady, what gentleman doesn’t introduce himself to his company? My name is Cornifer. I’m a cartographer by trade, and I’ve had a fascination with exploring ever since I was hatched. Fenmire is only the most recent stop on a long, never ending adventure to see the world, and chart every inch of it while I’m at it.” 

_Perhaps this bug’s come down with a different sort of madness that drives him to do so._ Iselda wonders internally to herself, before she jolts and sees Cornifer’s arm move suddenly from the table. Defensive training kicks in to her mind and, instinctively, her claws go to her nail and scabbard to draw before she sees his own claw right in front of her, extended in greeting. Every insect around her tenses up but Cornifer, and for a few agonizing seconds, there is a silent consensus among these poor locals that they would witness the murder of a traveler in broad daylight by yet another nail-happy Sergeant of the Count’s. But, as Iselda’s heart calms and she realizes, after a quick assessment of her situation, that she didn’t see so much as a dagger on Cornifer, she pushes her nail back into its sheathe and then, with some hesitation, takes Cornifer’s claw in her own. His grip is firm, surprisingly strong to her despite his soft appearance, and she nods curtly in response. 

“Iselda. I’m the Sergeant of the Count’s City Watch in the Outer Ring. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Cornifer.” 

“Ah, but the pleasure is mine.” The cartographer laughs lightly as he then gently pulls his claw away, leaning back in his chair and idly fiddling with his quill. “A sergeant, you say? I can say I expected to meet some colorful bugs here, but none as distinguished as a sergeant, madam.” His eyes smile from behind his glasses as he then looks down at himself and says, “I am truly honored you would take the time to study my work.”

“Well, I suppose I was curious.” Iselda shrugs her shoulders, then smiles a bit as well as she adds, “Though, if you’re selling those maps after you’re making them, you’re in the wrong place for that.” 

“Not necessarily. I do like to keep a record of my travels for myself every now and then. But I would be willing to sell copies to whomever asked for a donation of their choosing—”

“No, no. I mean, you’re not going to find anyone who needs them here, specifically in the Outer Ring,” Iselda clarifies, then sighs. “Most of the bugs out here can’t read. And _I_ certainly don’t need it given as I patrol here and know the Outer Ring like the back of my claw.” 

Cornifer gives a little chuckle at that, and then nods his head. “Then I suppose this will just be for my records. Though I do admit that this draft will never be complete unless I gain further access into the city. The furthest I’ve gotten is that big wall to the north.”

Iselda knew instantly what he was talking about. It was the Outer Battlement, the large, reinforced wall that separated the Outer Ring from the more lucrative Middle Rings, serving as a secondary obstacle against the madness prevalent within the Outer Ring that was built by the current Count’s father several decades ago, after a citizen’s rebellion (exacerbated by said madness) caused a fire that burned down much of the Middle Ring mercantile districts. The wall was impenetrable and unscalable, and the only access points that would lead further into Fenmire were large gates situated at each cardinal direction, guarded by City Watch soldiers far above her rank and further protected by needle-launching ballistas that had been the brainchild of one of the greatest Inner Ring minds of his time. Iselda passed out of the South Gate daily, and her patrols went as far as the East and West Gates, meeting along the way with several other soldiers assigned to the southern half of the Outer Ring in order to update each other on the things they’ve seen and the whispers they’ve heard. 

There was no way that Cornifer was going to get into the city without permission from someone the gate guards would listen to, and no Captain or Colonel she knew would let in some dusty wanderer just so he could draw a picture of a city they all already knew. 

She was about to inform him of this when she hears the soft, tinny sound of a nearby mechanical clock chiming on the hour, a shiver running down her shell as she realizes that she was due to change guard at this time, and had missed her rendezvous with the sergeant who would take over. Swearing internally, the tall weevil guard straightens herself back up and looks down at Cornifer before she states, “Well, I wish you the best of luck with that. If you’re staying here a few more days, try seeking me out and let me know how it goes.” 

She didn’t really think she would see Cornifer again. The Outer Ring was indeed as vast as he said, and if what she had seen was any indication, he hadn’t even quite finished with every part of it. There were still gaps in his streets, alleyways left unmarked, points of interest undrawn. Unless he worked without sleep, he’d be here at least a week longer, and even then she wasn’t sure he’d get it all. Perhaps he’d just give up when he realized he wouldn’t make it past the gates and go back to wherever it is he came from. Either way, the hurried goodbye she calls out over her shoulder is answered by one that was equally incomprehensible as she burst out of the door of the inn and into the muddy streets again, sprinting down the main boulevard and back toward the agreed-upon meeting point of her nightly relief.


	2. No Free Drinks and Cold, Dark Streets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cornifer's thoughts keep wandering to her. That lovely beauty in the armor who had taken time out of her busy day to study at least a portion of his lifetime's work. But as soon as she came, she was gone...and if he wants a chance to see her again, he understands that he's got to set some more pressing things to take care of first.

“You honestly have no idea how lucky you are right now.” 

The hushed atmosphere that had fallen over the inn the moment that the Sergeant had marched into the building broke with that one sentence, spoken with a sort of gruff resentment that was quite evident to Cornifer, even if he was only half-listening. It was his turn to go quiet, spectacled eyes still staring in the direction Iselda had suddenly hurried off in. He was mostly confused, with a good percentage of that feeling borne from disappointment; one second he was having a wonderful conversation with the first bug who had shown any interest in his work for the first time in a long time, and the next she was muttering harried platitudes and making a beeline for the exit. Had he said something off-color? Was there something else she needed to attend to? 

“Yeah, fer a second there I thought fer sure she was gonna run ya through. Them sarges don’t mingle of’n with th’ likes of us, an’ when they do it ain’t ever good.” 

The cartographer nods his head and forces himself to look away from the doorway and toward the two dirty, world-weary bugs that sat just across from him at other tables, their own carapaces roughened and chipped in several places that showed the male that they were bugs used to the hard things in life: hard labor, hard masters, and hard beds. As a matter of fact, many of the bugs in the Outer Ring had that sort of look to them, if they weren’t mostly engaged in other activities. Squalor sat all around him even in this building, which he had chosen mostly to avoid getting too much soggy peat onto his mapping supplies, but as long as the table was steady and the air was warm, Cornifer didn’t particularly care where he was. He’d dealt with too many worse things on the roads leading up to here to be choosy, and not to mention it was part of the adventure to get your feet muddy and claws dirty every once in a while. 

“She didn’t seem like a bad sort,” Cornifer argues, raising a brow at the bigger of the two bugs, a bulky grasshopper who wore a heavy, oiled cloak around his body and bracers around the top two of his four arms. If he stood up on those powerful legs of his Cornifer reckoned his antennae might have brushed the rusting chandelier above them, as he seemed imposing just sitting down. “As a matter of fact, I found her company quite pleasurable. Those who show at least a passing appreciation of the art of map-making have my utmost gratitude.” 

“I’ll tell you right now she didn’t come to you because she liked your fancy drawing,” the shorter bug, a cockroach with long, straight antennae that shot out from the back of his head, though Cornifer couldn’t tell if that was their normal position or because they were currently weighted down by the rather large straw hat he was wearing. Either way, it made him look perpetually annoyed. “She came to you because you’re different. You’ve got a different air...another way of saying it is you aren’t miserable like the rest of us. Those nail-happy thieves notice that, you know.”

The cockroach’s claws tighten around his pewter mug, the male bringing it rather aggressively to his mouth and downing a few big gulps in quick succession, a grunt escaping his mouth as he uses his other hairy, spiked arm to wipe his face. “Bugs like her, ‘different’ is a scent they’re trained to follow, and when they find it, they take ‘different’ and either throw it back out in the glen where you’ll freeze to death, or run it through. There’s almost no in-between; matter of fact I thought you were a dead bug the moment she arrived.” 

_Well, that makes one of us,_ Cornifer thinks to himself, shaking his head slowly as he once again uses his claws to brush his map out, reaching for his quill and ink again as he replies, “But she didn’t kill me. So therefore, perhaps she isn’t like the other sergeants you may know. All that matters is to me that I had a pleasant time speaking with her, and I do sincerely hope I get to again.” 

The cockroach scoffs, shaking his head and standing up from his table, his antennae twitching rapidly as he then turns his back on the weevil. “Your funeral, mate. They’re not all going to be like her. I’m just trying to warn you. That Count she serves is a right bastard and you’d better believe it’s not going to be the same for all of her ilk. Just tread carefully, keep your trunk in your books and quit the humming, or you’ll draw them all to us.” 

And with that, the surly insect turns swiftly on his heel and walks briskly away from his table, leaving Cornifer alone with his work, his congealed drink, and the growing emptiness that had been left behind from Iselda’s sudden departure. Slowly collecting his thoughts back to himself, he takes a deep breath to grab his quill again, trying to remember where on the map he’d left off...somewhere between the Mud Street junction where the road forked and became Heather and Fern Lanes… 

“He’s right, y’know.” 

The grasshopper spoke up again, bringing Cornifer out of his work and shattering what little concentration he had been willing to muster. The male wasn’t a bitter bug, but his current racing thoughts and conclusion to simply hunker down, ignore them and continue drawing meant that he was none to pleased with the second interruption. Swallowing back an irritated sigh, he looks wearily back up at the much larger insect, his quill stilling over the page and leaving a small gob of ink where it shouldn’t be. _Drat. I’ll have to fix that later._  
“You gotta be careful. That’s th’ only thing he was tryin’ t’say. I don’t know where about you come from but yer gonna have t’blend if you want to live t’see the end of yer map.” The grasshopper leans over to examine what Cornifer had drawn so far...he smelled of the earth outside of the inn, of wet mud and rain and perhaps a hint of hops...whatever was in his drink was strong, fermented stuff. Though his face was mostly black and his cloak just as dark, the cartographer could see that beneath the fabric, this bug’s chitin had vibrant yellow streaks, and he was honestly impressed to see such color in a city that seemed so bleak. The grasshopper must have noticed Cornifer staring and nods his head in response. 

“Yeah. Like I said. Blend.” He shrugs his shoulders and extends one of his lower arms out to Cornifer, a smile creeping across his face. “Name’s Gutt. Was a traveler too, but I been here a while since. Guess I couldn’ git enough of th’ mud an’ dirt an’ decided I wanted ta stay. Been a fixture’a this here inn since.” 

He pauses again, appearing to read Cornifer’s map in silence for a few more moments, then nodding once when his finished. “It’s not bad fer a first draft. Could probably retrace yer steps in some areas, as there’s a coupla in-roads ya missed…but they’re also in areas not even a big ol’ buck like me would dare to go, much less a bug like you.” 

Gutt waves his claw as Cornifer puffs up a bit, clearly upset he’d missed a few inches of city, but then continues on, “I mean it. ‘Less ya got a weapon somewhere in that big ass bag, I’d keep out. Not even them sarges’ll venture inta those dens. Weird things happen down them streets. It’s th’ only ‘madness’ in the Outer Ring that’s actually worth worrying about.”

By the tone of his voice, Cornifer decides not to ask Gutt to clarify what he meant, but he does nod silently in thanks, eyeing the grasshopper curiously before he slouches back into his own seat with a grunt, picking up his mug in a claw and eyeing its contents before pouring back the rest of his drink. When it seemed the other bug was getting lost in his own thoughts, however, he refreshes the ink on his quill and then, hesitating over those blank spots Gutt had gestured to for only a moment longer, continued working on his draft with a silent, somber air about him, completely engrossing himself in his work and doing his best to keep his mind from wandering back to that bewitching specimen he’d met only a few moments before. 

Cornifer didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the inn until he was rudely awoken some time later with a sharp blow to his backside with what felt like a baton...or the pommel of a nail, as it turned out. The bug who had delivered the blow had landed it in the sensitive spot on his upper back, right between his elytra, and so not only was this effective in making sure the weevil was one hundred percent conscious, it also caused him to let out a surprisingly shrill cry of pain. He flails his arms out, the blow reflexively causing his wings to flare and buzz, the momentary gust of wind that came from such an action stirring up quite a few discarded scraps of paper and causing them to flutter off the table and onto the floor. Another piece stuck fast to his spectacles, adhered there by a blot of dried ink that must have dribbled from his quill when exhaustion finally forced him unconscious, but once he had his wits about him he hastily pulls it off, his head whipping around to find and confront whoever it was that struck him. 

What he found were two bugs: the barmaid that had served him when he had first entered, and another bug clad in the same sort of armor that Iselda had been dressed in and a drawn nail in his claw. This bug was male, a tiger beetle, and certainly didn’t have that same friendly air about him that Iselda had however, and the only expression that changed in his face was when his eyes flickered momentarily over to the barmaid, motioning for him to focus his attention on her rather than him.

“Ah, there we are. He’s awake,” The barmaid huffs tiredly before she extends her claw toward Cornifer, the movement perfunct and quite indicative of her demanding something rather than a simple greeting. “Come on then. Last call was about an hour ago and you haven’t paid me for your first drink. I’m not a charity worker. I need about ten slivers from you or I’ll have the good sergeant here take them from you.” 

“Ten...Slivers?” Cornifer repeats, a cold stab piercing through him as he realizes that he doesn’t have any currency on him in that particular domination, as he had only arrived in this city early this morning. While on his trips elsewhere, he would stop to mingle with the locals every now and then, working odd jobs to earn his food and shelter as a beetle like him was more prone to running away in the wilderness than foraging for his own food. He had meant to approach the barmaid toward the end of the night and offer to work cleaning dishes or tables to pay for the drink she had served him, but now...he supposed there would be little he could do to make amends for the situation he was in now. 

However, he didn’t want this female to think he was mocking her, especially not with this new, ferocious guard looming over his shoulder and staring him down as if he’d done something far more illegal than taken a free drink. As he simply nods his head dumbly at the barmaid’s demands, the map-maker pulls up his satchel from off of the floor, his arms shaking quite a bit as a thought crossed into the forefront of his mind: that gruff warning that had come from the nameless cockroach that had sat at the table just across from his.

_“Your funeral mate. They’re not all going to be like her...that Count she serves is a right bastard…” _

Cornifer realizes with growing dread that his first night in the city might be the first night he learns just how right that poor roach was. 

Despite knowing he wouldn’t have the funds (or at least not funds in a currency denomination that he figured would be passable to the barmaid), Cornifer makes a show of searching in his supply satchel for the money that the barmaid asked for, opening every pocket and laboriously combing through each and every one of his scraps of paper, every bottle of ink, every quill and nib and stylus he owned and even pulling out several different types of money that he still had left over from some of his earlier adventures...many of which were simply small metal pieces cast crudely in the shape of oblong shells...and there were also some beads from a kingdom he hadn’t been to before, but had been gifted to him by some shifty-eyed traveller some time ago. He didn’t know if they were worth anything, and he hadn’t yet finished his research on where exactly they came from. But, he held onto them all the same. 

He had just been about to give up on his search and politely inform the barmaid of his dilemma, when she simply let out a tired sigh and the sergeant behind him shifts just enough to draw his attention. Before he has time to react, the sergeant places a firm claw across Cornifer’s backside, gripping him tightly at the nape of his neck and catching his long antennae in his strong grip. Any words he might have said devolved into a small “eep” of pain before he was dragged from his seat, forced to stand or be thrown to the ground as the barmaid gathered up all of his belongings behind him, her head shaking slowly as he Cornifer was treated to a rather undignified exit from the inn he had taken shelter in for most of the day. 

“Just to the gutters tonight, vagrant. But if I catch you mooching in here again, my claws will be tied. It’ll be back out in the glen where you belong.”  
Those were the tiger beetle sergeant’s first and only words to him that night, and once the two of them had crossed that threshold, the sharp impact of the sergeant’s foot claws catching on his abdomen shot through Cornifer’s body as he was, quite literally, kicked into the street. His glasses flew from his face and stuck lenses-first into the muddy streets, and as the cartographer grunts and pushes himself onto all fours to grope around for them, he hears a soft rustle behind him, followed by the sound of his satchel whooshing through the air before landing with a thud beside him in the mud. Cornifer could only hope that the barmaid at least had the courtesy to roll up his work before tossing his supplies so carelessly after him… 

“Don’t bother me with drunks again.” The sergeant continues, talking to the barmaid this time as his nail rattles back into its sheathe. Cornifer could also hear him dusting off his armor, as if he’d just hauled garbage into the street rather than another insect like him. “I’ve got other things to worry about that aren’t a complete waste of my time. If you can’t move them get your lazy squit of a husband to haul their fat asses out.” 

_I am most certainly not drunk...I asked for tea. What nerve._ Cornifer huffs indignantly as he fishes his spectacles from the mud, making a face as he then fumbles over to his bag to retrieve the small rag he possessed to keep them clean...and then fumbles around in the pockets until he manages to pull it free and begin cleaning off the lenses with it. By the time his glasses were clean and he had situated them back on the bridge of his trunk, the soldier was already continuing his patrol down the road, and the barmaid was standing in the door of her inn, watching him go. She watched him until he rounded the bend in the road that continued its parallel path to the Outer Ring’s wall, and when he was gone, she swiftly turns on her heel and slams the inn door behind her. The force knocks a few dried, crumbled bits of mud brick from a crack in the facade a couple of inches directly above the door frame, and Cornifer could hear the pieces clinks and shatter against the two stone steps that kept the mud mostly out of the establishment. 

Well, he supposed he would be camping for the night then. 

The weevil adjusts his strap against his shell and pushes himself up to his feet, trying his best to roll his shoulders out and flutter his wings slightly before closing them behind his elytra, his thorax still smarting beneath the junction where the sergeant had smacked him with the butt end of his nail. That blow would probably smart for a few more days, but he would survive. It could have been a much more severe injury.

Only the light of the moon making its faintest glow through the fog lit up the muddy streets this late at night; Cornifer had noticed on his earlier walk mapping out the Outer Ring in his head that there seemed to be a lack of lights of any sort, giving the empty streets this late at night an eerie feeling to them as the cartographer shuffled along the main boulevard. Various items clinked and shuffled together inside of his satchel, and the male keeps his arms wrapped around himself in a small attempt to retain some warmth that he had gotten while within the walls of the inn. He had a blanket, or at least a few sufficiently large sheets of scrap paper to use, but he was in no position in the present to settle down and nest somewhere for the night given as laying in this damp mud with this sort of chill in the air would certainly be the death of him. 

At least walking in this city, this late at night when he assumed all who worked here had come back from their jobs, he could get a good feel for what the culture of this particular ring of Fenmire was like. Sure, he had seen the sights when he was walking around: or at least, the same sight more than once. Everything in the Outer Ring was brown, crumbling, the citizens broken up every now and then by the silver armor of the City Watch bugs, all of which appeared to be of much higher born stock than the other citizens of this part of town. Much to Cornifer’s dismay, he didnt see Iselda among the available sergeants, and as such he kept well away from any place that would put them within their line of sight. As he got closer to the wall that had stopped him from traveling further into the city that day, he could see crimson banners hanging from official-looking buildings that bore the same sort of picture that had been embossed onto the breastplate of every soldier he had seen so far: a large, horned bug with four flared wings, sitting in the center of seven concentric rings and holding what appeared to be a sphere between his two upper arms. 

Upon examining the area beneath one of these large banners, he located an alleyway that seemed to be strewn with the refuse of several broken crates and pallets, forming a rather large, somewhat uncomfortable-looking pile of wood that at least would keep his shell and body from contacting the mud for the night. Trying to use what limited light he had to peer inside and look around for any unsavory bugs that might be waiting in ambush (and also ensuring that, if he bedded there, he would be out of sight of the sergeants), he deems the trash heap safe to enter and carefully, cautiously, makes his way to a relatively flat area in which to make his bed for the night. 

Once he had gotten situated, he had to admit that the flat pallet he had managed to find wasn’t such a bad choice. He’d wake up with a bit of a sore back and probably a few splinters in his joints, but it was certainly comparable to the option of freezing to death. Cornifer set about pulling a small blanket from his belongings and using a few crumpled pieces of paper to make a makeshift cot, keeping his humming low in order not to wake anyone sleeping, or drawing any sort of attention to himself. Tomorrow, he’d likely take another lap around the Outer Ring and finalize what he’d been working on this afternoon, and then perhaps he’d find some way to get past the wall that had stopped him before. He certainly would like to see more of this city before he moved on…

_And, hopefully, more of that charming Iselda,_ he finds himself thinking, the stocky male stopping momentarily to think about that. Other than Gutt, she had been the friendliest face he had seen in quite some time. And if he was going to be heading further into the city, perhaps it would do him some good to have one of these city sergeants vouching for him. But he did just meet her today, so perhaps he could get to know her a bit better before he asked such a favor from her, maybe invite her for tea...

_...Right after you earn your keep._ Cornifer reminds himself, the papers beneath him rustling as he adjusts himself in the hastily-crafted bed, tying his satchel to his waist before pulling his thin travel blanket over him with a huff. Right...he supposed that would be a sticking point for quite a bit of time yet. He wouldn’t be satisfied if he didn’t see all there was to see of the Fen. He wouldn’t see more of Fenmire until he went further in the city, he probably wouldn’t go further in the city if no one trusted him, and he wouldn’t get anyone to trust him unless he looked for some honest work on the side and earned some of their...shards, was it? _What an interesting currency denomination. I do wonder what it could possibly look like._

All things to consider one thing at a time. As the weevil drifted off into sleep, the possibilities of all that lay ahead of him raced through his thoughts, his thoughts did occasionally drift back toward Iselda, how her appearance had seemed to lift his spirits, for just the few moments he had seen her.

_If anything else...I see her again, I could at least thank her for her curiosity._


End file.
